


Sunday Rain

by QueenBoo



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Gentle Dom Howard, Just soft (mostly) wholesome sex, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, Vince is a Good Boy, there are some tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Vince likes sex in all it's forms. But if he had to choose? He likes Howard's Sunday morning sex the best.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39





	Sunday Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sunday Rain by the Foo Fighters!

Upon returning to consciousness Vince is greeted by the tickling sensation of a moustache at his ear and the featherlight drag of fingers on the inside of his thigh. The owner of said fingers gently coaxing him to wakefulness. 

“G’morning.” He sighs, blinking his eyes open to take in Howard’s waiting expression. 

His cheeks are flushed, brown eyes blown wide and soft at the edges with a relaxed kind of lust. Not the kind that pounces on you and sinks its teeth into your flesh, but the kind that leads you by the hand into a warm nest. Holds you close and seduces you. Howard doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. Vince can read the parting of his lips and the arch of a single eyebrow almost as well as the insistent press of an erection at his hip. “Mm, _very_ good morning.” He purrs.

Actions speak louder than words. That’s a thing people say isn’t it? Howard takes it as gospel; continues his vow of silence. Calloused fingers press a little firmer, Vince spreads his legs a touch to accommodate, and then that wandering hand is sliding up, up, up-- cups around his rapidly filling cock with confidence. 

It’s amazing. It’s fantastic. It’s the stuff porn films only dream of replicating. Vince hisses through his teeth, is rewarded with a heavy squeeze and then inquisitive fingers sink lower. Howard’s gaze doesn’t leave his face the entire time; rapt attention hones in on every reaction. A fingertip drags over his balls, skates by his perineum, and finally delves between his cheeks with the kind of deft finger work that comes with years of mastering multiple instruments.

That finger reaches it’s final destination, presses hesitantly at his hole while Howard’s  _ insufferable fucking eyebrows  _ continue to wiggle a game of charades on his face. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, the way he raises them in silent question. But Vince finds himself shuddering anyway, panting, “ _ Yes _ ,” with enough enthusiasm that Howard exhales a little harder than necessary in his own eager sigh. 

And yet, there’s nothing hurried about the way they move with each other once this agreement has hit the air. 

Howard rolls himself onto Vince’s body, settles between his legs where Vince has spread them to welcome him into the space. The kiss Howard drops to his mouth is heat-filled, but slow. There’s a palm splayed against the jut of his naked hipbone, just holding him, while a fervid tongue slides into his mouth and demonstrates skill enough to leave Vince trembling in his grip. 

There’s something to be said about this leisurely love-making Howard is so fond of. 

Even as they lay together, Vince’s arms hooked around Howard’s neck and their hips pressed together but not moving; Vince is about as turned on as he can get. 

Vince likes sex in all it’s forms. All of it’s good. He likes it rough, quick and dirty. He likes it gentle. He can top, he can bottom, he can top  _ from  _ the bottom. If his partner wanted to get off like a pair of randy teenagers by grinding on one another, gasping wetly into each other’s mouths until they came in their pants he would be as excited about it as he would be about hours of intense foreplay; taking a lover apart until they were trembling and begging for release. It really didn’t matter to him, bodies meeting bodies was art that could be appreciated in any form it takes. 

But Vince likes Howard’s kind of sex the best. 

The lazy Sunday mornings after Vince has stumbled home from a night out in the wee hours, mouth filled with the taste of one too many fruity cocktails and stinking like other people’s perfume. He’ll find Howard still awake, anxiously awaiting his return, and Vince will shag him as acrobatically as he dares-- sometimes twice if he wasn’t too drunk-- as a reminder to the both of them that no matter how often Vince flits off with the worshipping masses; nothing the Camden elite can offer him with their immaculately manicured hands will ever be better than what he has here. 

And in the mornings following the night before, Howard wakes Vince with soft warm kisses, gentle hands, and he returns the favour except he does it  _ his _ way. 

They're necking like teens for at least ten minutes before Howard decides to advance proceedings. Vince can't do it, this isn't his show. He's a pawn in a sensual chess game; he's here to be played. To obey soft commands. 

So when a previously resting palm becomes a grip on his side and he is urged up into the downward roll of Howard's hips he is helpless to do anything but gasp. Pressed between their stomachs their cocks slide deliciously; Vince might just black out from how tantalising it feels. Not enough to get him off, but enough to snatch the air from his lungs the longer it goes on. 

With each drive downwards, Howard's mouth finds a new place to worship. He's leaving kisses like targets, places to come back to later, down his neck and across his collarbones. Gets as far as his shoulder, sucks lightly at pale skin and makes his way back again for the return trip. 

It's maddening. 

And despite there never being an expectation for Vince to partake on mornings like these--he's restless. Fingers sink into Howard's curls long enough for him to give the slightest tug before he's facing the consequences of that action. 

Sitting up on his knees, removing all contact, Howard shoots him a look. Not just any look.  _ The look.  _ The  _ I'm not angry I'm just  _ _disappointed_ look. The one that usually applies in any scenario where Vince behaves in a less than ideal manner. He's used to seeing it after an unsavoury comment or when he breaks something in the shop--but it works in this context too. 

What a  _ naughty  _ boy. 

It is not for Vince to act when they have sex like this. Vince is a recipient. He knows this, knows he has broken a rule. 

Because Howard is a man of action, and a shockingly versatile lover, but what he  _ likes  _ is when he can spread Vince in the sheets like warm butter and  _ have  _ him. Own him. Worship him.  _ Take care of him. _ An energetic drunk fuck might be Vince's way of reminding them he belongs to this tall northern jazz freak; Howard prefers reminding Vince in other ways. 

Large hands urge him into his front and Vince goes without a peep of argument. Despite thriving on being able to see Howard, he knows this is his act of repentance. He'll get what he needs, but he has to earn it first. Which means he tucks his arms around a pillow and buries his face into it while his partner gets to work. 

Long dark hair is brushed away from the nape of his neck, replaced instead by ticklish kisses. A hand either side of Vince's chest supports Howard's weight enough that he can dip his head and impress his teeth on the notches of Vince's spine. Each new bite draws a fresh noise from Vince; he whines and gasps into the pillow. Whole body wracking with shivers. 

That mouth reaches his lower back, delivers two distinct kisses and is replaced by hands. Fingers press and knead at his muscles and the groan that tears free of this throat is all pleasure; he writhes with it. 

“Be still,” Howard commands, voice low and it drags over Vince like silk. Settles in the bottom of his stomach, burning hot. 

He wishes he could see Howard's face. Wishes he could lock eyes with him as he wrangles his body into a vague sense of calm.  _ Look at me Howard,  _ he thinks,  _ look how good I am.  _

Howard must see. He's rewarded with the press of his crotch against his arse. Cock grinding into him hellishly slow-- at the exact same moment nails scratch lightly down his ribs and Vince moans into his pillow. 

As expected, Howard delights in playing like this as long as he can stand. Like the fucking tease he has learnt to be, he alternates his movements. He will press himself against Vince in shallow rolls while his fingers continue to knead at him, then he'll grind harder; pick up the pace as nails rake lightly either side of Vince's spine. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to be felt. 

Occasionally, the insistent press of Howard's prick will stop. The man allows himself a second to huff deep breaths and retreat from the edge. Vince knows he must be driving himself mad like this; he always does. But he won't let himself come  _ on  _ Vince when he has the option to come  _ in  _ him. 

Howard leans over him, produces a half empty bottle of lube and Vince can't remember whether it was left there from last night or Howard had stashed it there like some kind of sex crazed squirrel storing supplies for the winter. Either way, the sight of it sets his hips shifting again, breathy pleas of Howard name tumbling from his lips. 

Vince tucks his legs up beneath himself in preparation, turns his face to the side against his pillow and waits. 

A slick finger presses against his entrance, circles it teasingly, while the other continues to brush comfortingly over his lower back. “Are you ready?” Howard asks gruffly, and when all Vince does is nod wordlessly, Howard delivers a light pinch to his side for disobeying an unspoken order. 

_ Speak when you are spoken to.  _

“Yes,” Vince replies, only managing to restrain himself from getting bratty with the thought of what’s to come. “Yes, Howard, I’m ready.” 

It’s all the confirmation Howard needs. Pressing forward he sinks one finger into Vince and it startles a yelp from him. Vince clutches at the pillow under his head; thinks of how much he wants to avoid another punishment. How much he wants to earn a reward. Its the only thing that keeps him from driving himself backwards like a desperate tart. 

Vince loves a slow shag but Howard has a way of stringing him out so much that he loses his mind. There's nothing going on up there anymore except the need to be licked, kissed, sucked, or fucked, any one of the above. All of the above if someone was feeling charitable. So as soon as he feels ready enough for a second finger his restless limbs start shifting again despite himself. "Howard please,  _ please. _ "

And let it never be said Howard Moon didn’t know what he was doing in the bedroom. Two slick fingers slide in and with no preamble whatsoever, Howard twists his wrist in a way that wrenches a sob from Vince's throat. " _ Fuck!  _ Yes." He cries into his pillow gag. "There--please."

Dimly, the slick sound of Howard preparing himself registers in the room. Flesh on flesh echoes, though Vince is a little preoccupied chanting himself hoarse. Babbling nonsense he doesn't process, but religious figures and his good manners feature heavily. 

A third finger joins the party, just enough to sting in the perfect way. Howard's torture no longer lays in the speed either, he's dragging his fingers in and out at a hastened pace but crooking them enough to rake over Vince's prostate on every pass. 

He's gone from a pleasurable stroll to the finish line to sprinting toward it at top speed and he  _ can't take it.  _ It's driving him wild. Being still is a forgotten request, Vince's whole body is jolting with pleasurable shocks of static electricity and he's arching into the motion willingly. Losing himself to the pleasure. 

Actual tears spring to Vince's eyes with the sheer ridiculous, incredible, agonising frustration of it all and he lifts his head to beg into the air, “Please Howard. I’m ready, please fuck me--.” 

Having gotten what he wanted, a jolt of ego-boosting, power-assuring, reassurance. A mental sound byte he'll cherish forever, no doubt. Howard draws his fingers out and the blunt head of his cock is pressing at his entrance much to fast for Vince's liking. 

"Wait!" Vince begs weakly, reached back to press at Howard's hip. Over his shoulder he can see the man's worry over what had gone wrong between the begging and the stopping. 

Though aside from that he looks beautiful. High flush on his cheeks, mouth parted and chest heaving with deep calming breaths. His eyes are wide and sparkling. 

Vince doesn’t want to  _ not _ see it. 

“Can we…” And Vince can’t even bring himself to say it. Which is unusual, typically Vince was as mouthy as they come, especially in areas of the bedroom. But not on mornings like these he wasn’t. 

Morning’s like these were an excuse to switch off, hand the reins to someone else and let himself be taken care of. 

But a quick glance to the bed beside them and Howard knows what he means, a gentle smile overcomes his features and he nods. Helps Vince onto his back and positions himself accordingly. Resting his weight on his elbow by Vince’s head, Vince’s ankles hooking at his lower back, Howard presses delicate kisses to his cheeks as he begins to press inside. 

Vince’s mouth drops open into a perfect 'O' without him commanding it to. Howard’s gaze finds his, and it doesn’t leave him. The entire time he gently rocks himself into Vince's body he's staring down at him, unabashedly in awe. It sucks all the breath from Vince's lungs, leaves him just silently gaping until Howard is buried to the hilt. 

They still. Chest to chest. Vince blinks up at his partner and Howard smiles back at him like he's a pleasing work of art. 

The man gives an insistent press into Vince he makes an ungraceful  _ ‘Hnng’ _ noise that has Howard look of affection morphing into smug prowess. 

One of Vince's hands is snagged by Howard's free one, their fingers linked together and pressed into the mattress by his head. 

When he moves there’s nothing rushed about it. And they don’t stop looking at each other. 

It’s one of the most intense fucks Vince has ever had. The gentle roll of Howard’s body and how eventually Vince, whiny and needy begins to roll himself upwards to receive each drive. It’s a delicious kind of strung out process. A clammy early morning shag. A loving worship. Howard playing his body like an elaborate chord progression. 

One thrust throws their rhythm off, a sharp press that leaves both of their moans harmonising and Vince knows it’s the beginning of the end. Howard dips his head, nibbles at a point on his throat he had earlier marked out with his lips. Drives himself forward a little harder on every third roll and Vince tightens the muscles in his thighs to drag him closer. 

The opposite happens. Howard sits back on his knees, releases Vince’s hand and instead grips his thighs, he starts dragging the smaller mans body into every round of his hips and Vince is squealing because the angle is just right and he’s not going to last. 

“Fuck, Howard,  _ fucking _ hell!” He whines, tosses his head from side to side on the pillow. Fresh tears spill down his face and it feels _beautiful._ “Fuck me,  _ yes _ !” 

“Touch yourself,” Howard orders, not raising his voice but the direction is clear. “I want you there first.” 

Who is he to deny an order? 

It's not going to take long. Steadily leaking precome, his prick is already slick when he takes it in hand. He works himself with quick sloppily motions, just a beat faster than Howard is driving into him. 

He comes singing Howard’s name like a hymn in the filthiest church known to man. Laying his body at the altar of Moon and trusting the deity to deliver him from evil. 

The thrusts slow, but don’t stop, as he rides out his orgasm. It's reaching a point of verging on too sensitive that has him keening high in his throat but it’s not uncomfortable. Howard is over him once more, pressing kisses to his tear streaked cheeks, nuzzling at his throat until he can breathe, hot and damp, into his ear-- “I’m going to fuck you properly now,” 

"That wasn't properly?" Vince slurs in response, met with a scowl and a light smack to his arse for his trouble. 

Vince soon learns what he means. 

With his face buried in Vince's neck, Howard paints his moans like sheet music all over Vince's skin using teeth marks and love bites. He does not hold back, either, any thought of calculated and worshipful sex is gone replaced with a kind of animalistic rutting into his body that has Vince squirming and whining high in his throat.

It's a shame he isn't going to last otherwise Vince is certain he'd be able to get it up again with how every other thrust drags at his sweet spot and has him crying out. And _actually_ crying-- wrung out in the best way possible. 

A fist in Vince's hair, he finds his head dragged to the side so Howard can suck a mark just below his ear. Then he's coming. His whole body stiff, a hiss of " _ Fuck,  _ Vince." in his ear as he does. 

Afterward, breath mingling. They remain stuck together for as long as they can stand. Hands roam over one another, silently comforting and assuring each other they're okay. Weak and utterly shagged out, it takes a beat for them to wind up enough to separate. 

When they eventually detangle, Howard flops onto his side beside Vince and Vince wastes no time snuggling to his side. 

“Face to face?.” Howard enquires conversationally, bold of him really, Vince is already half asleep with the other man's fingers pulling through his hair. 

“I like looking at you,” He mumbles. “Like looking at you when you’re that confident.” 

Howard snorts his amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

"You should." It's said around a yawn, Vince slipping further into unconsciousness. "Love you, 'oward." 

"Love you too, little man." 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever I can be found on Tumblr: 
> 
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


End file.
